


Triple Shot Macchiato

by isthisenoughorcanwegohigher



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Professors, M/M, Welters Challenge 2019, but has become a chapter based fic, oh look another thing that was meant to be just one part, theme 2: destiny, who needs self control when you can have au fix it fics that don't make you cry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-02-29 01:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18768826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthisenoughorcanwegohigher/pseuds/isthisenoughorcanwegohigher
Summary: Brian Quentin Coldwater—Quentin to his friends, Brian to his colleagues—has always longed for a love that’s meant to last, the kind of love he used to read about in fairy tales. But after so many failed attempts at love, he’s all but given up hope in meeting the one. Enter Eliot, the architecture design professor at Quentin’s new job, who has a penchant for work parties, and who claims that the best cure for a hangover is a nice, strong espresso.





	Triple Shot Macchiato

**Author's Note:**

> _Daniel when I first saw you_   
>  _I knew that you had a flame in your heart_   
>  _And under our blue skies_   
>  _Marble movie skies_   
>  _I found a home in your eyes_   
>  _We'll never be apart_

“Shit,” Quentin muttered, passing his cup from hand to hand as he made his way to the counter against the wall where the napkin dispensers, sugars, and various creams were. “Shit,  _ shit _ , that’s hot.”

He set his cup down on the counter, sighing in relief as he shook his hands, and risked a glance at his watch. It was an antique watch, given to him by his father, who had gotten it from his father, and so on. The face was a deep navy blue, and if you looked closely, there were little golden specks in the patterns of the constellations. And sometimes, if you looked closely enough, you could realize that you were running late for an interview.

This was the case now, as Quentin took in the time the watch was displaying, and he cursed again, grabbing a few napkins and cradling the cup in them.

“Shit,” he hissed again, turning to make a hasty exit from the coffee shop, hoping against hope that he would be able to make the last few blocks to his interview in less than five minutes.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans, because no sooner had he spun away from the counter than he crashed into someone.

“Oh!” said the person, stepping back and wincing as two spilled and very hot coffees made their presence known, soaking their shirt.

Quentin was in a similar state, dabbing the front of his jacket with the napkins he’d grabbed.

“I’m so sorry,” Quentin finally got out when the situation registered with him. He looked up to the person he’d walked into only to see him grinning amusedly.

“It’s not a problem,” the man said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I wasn’t too sure about this shirt for today anyways, it seemed a little dull.”

Quentin’s cheeks dusted with color.

“Really, it’s no trouble,” the man laughed. “Just make it up to me by taking me out for another coffee later, yeah? You look like you’re in a rush to get somewhere.”

“Bit of a rush,” Quentin admitted. “A coffee date to make up for it?”

“So it’s a plan, then?”

Quentin hesitated for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah, it’s a plan.”

“Excellent. I’ll be here tomorrow at 10am sharp. Don’t be late. I’m Eliot, by the way.” Eliot stuck out his hand.

“Brian,” Quentin said, shaking Eliot’s hand. “But friends call me Quentin. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He gave Eliot one last lingering smile and then, still in a coffee-soaked jacket, dashed out of the shop to his interview.

Eliot laughed softly, still feeling the warmth from Quentin’s palm.

* * *

Through the entire interview, Quentin couldn’t stop thinking about Eliot. In fact, it was a damn good thing that he’d been through a number of similar interviews lately, because the answers had become monotonous--rehearsed answers to equally rehearsed questions.

One could see it as a bad thing, of course, that Quentin knew just what to expect, because it meant he could think about Eliot. The fiercely patterned shirt that screamed for attention, but was still subtle enough that he hadn’t even noticed that it was a patterned shirt until he’d been so embarrassed about spilling coffee all over Eliot that he couldn’t meet his eyes.

“And why do you think, Mr. Coldwater, that you would be a good addition to the English department here at the University of Vermont?”

Quentin startled and stared at the chair of the English program. This was one question he hadn’t heard yet. “Sorry?”

The woman--Quentin was so distracted by this Eliot that he couldn’t even remember her name--leaned back in her chair, an amused smirk on her face. “Why do you think you would be a good addition here, Brian?”

Quentin shrank back in his seat, lips pursed as he thought. Something about this woman--Claire, he thought--made him think that the answer he’d given to everyone who asked him why he pursued a career as a professor wouldn’t cut it. Saying that he was passionate about teaching and eager to help students realize their own goals wasn’t what Claire was looking for.

When the answer did occur to him, Quentin felt something inside of him click, for the first time in his life since he settled on a career path.

“I still believe in fairy tales,” he said slowly, resting his hands on the desk and intertwining his fingers. “So many people view it as childish to still believe in magic and true love and impossible things, but life is an impossible thing, and the moment we forget that is the moment that we lose hope in the people and communities around us. It’s the moment we lose faith in ourselves and the moment we really start to die.

Magic is all around us, in the small things like always being able to find where you left your keys, and the big things, like people meeting and knowing that they were always meant to meet, that there’s something in their lives that was always drawing them to that place at that time and to that person. And it’s so easy to buy into the narrative that magic is for children, that hope and faith and the belief that we aren’t alone is a childish thing to leave in the past, and we all do that sometimes, because sometimes it’s easier to get through life that way.

But no matter what, I still want to believe, and I still try to believe, because life is not just this endless march towards death. There is so much beauty in the world, but you have to know where to find it, and you have to want to find it. And that, above all, is the lesson I want to give my students. They will find magic in the world, but only if they believe in it, and only if they believe that they can  _ create _ that magic. I want to teach them to believe in impossible things and I want them to know that they aren’t alone, not if they don’t choose to be.”

Claire watched him steadily the entire time he was speaking and, when he was finished, she leaned forward, a smile on her face. “That, Brian, was very well said.”

“Oh,” Quentin said, surprised. “Thank you.”

“Welcome to the team, Professor Coldwater,” Claire said, offering her hand out.

“Really?” Quentin asked. When Claire nodded, he took her hand and shook it, grinning. “Thank you so much.”

Claire smiled crookedly. “Now, let’s talk about the details of your employment….”

* * *

Julia grinned at Quentin over the edge of her glass. Her eyes glittered with pride, although there was a definite added sparkle after the previous two drinks she’d already ordered.

“Come on, Q, this is a celebration! So drink! Celebrate!” Julia exclaimed.

“Julia is right, man,” James said, nodding. He had a glass of beer in one hand and the other massaging Julia’s shoulder. “You got the job! So loosen up and live a little.”

Quentin grimaced at his two childhood friends over his barely touched drink. “I’m really not in the mood to drink,” he said over the bass of the song now playing over the club’s speakers. “I told you this was a bad idea when you suggested it, and you both still dragged me out here.”

Julia stuck her tongue out at him. “Come on,  _ Brian _ ,” she teased, stressing his first name. “You deserve this! Please?”

“Will you leave me alone about it if I finish this drink?” Quentin asked, holding up his glass.

“For now,” James promised, looking serious as ever.

Quentin rolled his eyes and took a long swig of the vodka soda, grimacing as the vodka hit the back of his throat.

“And only if you go dance with that girl that’s been checking you out all night,” Julia added when Quentin was mid-sip of his drink.

“What?” Quentin demanded once he’d finished choking, slightly red in the face.

Julia gestured across the club to a young woman about their age. “Dance with her,” Julia insisted.

Quentin followed Julia’s pointing to the girl. She was wearing what, in this light, appeared to be ombre dyed shorts in rainbow colors, a fur vest, and a t-shirt with a unicorn on it. She was dancing along with the music, her long brown hair loose against her back and swaying as she moved. And, true to Julia’s observations, she kept looking back towards Quentin.

“Come on,” Julia said, dragging out the two words as she leaned across the table to grin at Quentin. “She has a unicorn shirt on, Q, she’s exactly your type.”

“Maybe in a minute,” Quentin hedged, taking another swig of his drink.

“Just go!” Julia exclaimed, laughing. “What do you have to lose?”

James chuckled softly at Quentin’s pained expression.

The words came out before Quentin had really thought them through. “I have a date tomorrow,” he admitted. “Tomorrow morning, at the coffee shop near campus.”

Julia and James stared at him, the shock apparent on their faces. Silence reigned at their table for a minute, the music distant now in the roaring in Quentin’s head.

“A date?” James finally asked, eyes wide, like he’d never heard of such a thing. Ironic, since Quentin knew that as soon as he threw in the towel and left, this would become a date for his two friends.

“Yes,” Quentin nodded.

The confirmation was all Julia needed to lean back against the booth and begin interrogating him. “How did you get this date? Who is it? Is it anyone we know? What’s their name? And why is the first I’m hearing of this? A date is so much more exciting than a job, Q!”

“His name’s Eliot, you probably don’t know him, and we met this morning when I spilled coffee all over him. He said that to repay him, I had to take him on a date tomorrow. At the coffee shop.” Quentin knew that his face was a spectacular shade of red, and he had never been more grateful for the dim red lighting of the club.

James, who had been supportive but not always understanding of Quentin’s sexuality, was watching the interaction with raised eyebrows. 

“What are you doing here, then?” Julia asked. “You should be sleeping so you can get up early and prepare for this date!”

The whiplash of the situation was giving Quentin a headache. “What?”

“Go!” Julia said, waving her hand at him. “Go home! And text me all the juicy details afterwards!”

Bemused, Quenin rose from his spot at the table, set a twenty down, and bid his two friends a good night.

* * *

Quentin smoothed his shirt down, watching himself in the mirror. His breath hitched when he realized his hands were sweaty, which was only making the wrinkles in his shirt stand out more.

Maybe he should find a patterned shirt in his closet, like the one Eliot had been wearing. That would hide any wrinkles. If he had a patterned shirt like that, of course. Quentin couldn’t remember the last time he’d owned a nicer shirt with any bold patterns on it. All the shirts he had with graphics on them were old and worn t-shirts, and they were more of the nerd variety.

He didn’t want to wear a nerd shirt on this date that probably wasn’t actually a date, in reality, in case it scared Eliot off.

Quentin also wasn’t sure why he was worried about scaring Eliot off during this probably not a date that he was still calling a date. It seemed like a date. And maybe, if he was honest with himself, which was a bit of a problem lately, he  _ wanted _ it to be a date. It had been so long since he’d had the opportunity to connect with someone else on that level, and Eliot was rather attractive.

Breathing in sharply, Quentin rubbed his hands down his hips, hoping his jeans would absorb some of the sweat. It wouldn’t do to meet Eliot today and spill coffee on him,  _ again _ , because his hands were too slick to hold a cup.

A quick glance at his watch told Quentin that he had a little under half an hour to get to the coffee shop. If he walked slowly enough, he should get there at exactly 10am. Neither early nor late, but exactly on time. If this wasn’t a date, and it really in all likeliness wasn’t--then there would be no harm done. If it was a date….

He didn’t even want to go there. If it was a date, then Quentin wasn’t ready for that. At least, he didn’t think so. After all the times he’d had his heart broken, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to risk it all over again for a pretty face from a coffee shop.

For all he’d told Claire in the interview, Quentin was starting to believe that maybe love wasn’t always meant to be. Maybe it wasn’t for everyone. Sometimes, when he allowed himself to get really down, he let himself believe it was because he himself wasn’t worthy of being loved, like he’d done something to deserve the cheating and the break-ups and the boys who thought he wasn’t gay enough and the girls who were worried that he was too gay, like he was wrong and incapable of loving someone enough for them to stay. Like he was the problem.

If this was a date, then Quentin was going to run for the hills. From what he’d gathered about Eliot from their brief interaction yesterday, he knew already that he was in too deep for this to go south.

These thoughts plagued him, running circles through his mind, as Quentin made his way through the city to the coffee shop.

* * *

Eliot, for all he had planned, was early. He’d put so much thought into getting ready for today, for what he hoped would end up being a first date with this Quentin, that he’d been prepared for two hours beforehand.

At that point, he’d figured that it was no better to be safe than sorry, and had headed to the coffee shop. If luck was on his side, maybe it would be empty enough that he could find a decent place for the two of them to sit.

Specifically, a place that was out of sight of the students that frequented the shop. Quentin struck Eliot as the teacher type, and if Eliot was right--he usually was--Quentin would have been applying to the open spot in the English department at the university. It would be best for the both of them, in that case, if the students didn’t show up to the first day of the semester armed with the fresh gossip of their architecture and English professors dating.

Yes, it was best to let that gossip wait until Quentin had settled into his position in the department, to let it be the topic of speculation until both of them were comfortable with things.

All of this hung on Quentin being interested, and by God, Eliot was hoping to death that he was. If he was, this was one relationship Eliot had already vowed not to screw up. Destiny didn’t give fourth chances, and he’d already blown the second straight to hell--both literally and figuratively.

Eliot studied his reflection in the back of the spoon again, running a hand through his hair and trying not to flinch each time the door chimed. In his head, Eliot was already planning a second date--or real first date, depending on how you looked at it--at the Skinny Pancake down on the waterfront. Quentin seemed like the kind of person who liked breakfast and loved coffee.

Speaking of Quentin, the door opened again, and there he was, looking as nervous as Eliot felt, his eyes dancing over the patrons of the shop until they landed on Eliot, sitting in a booth that backed up to the windows overlooking Main Street.

* * *

Quentin’s face betrayed a stew of emotions as he made eye contact with Eliot from across the coffee shop. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, hoping that Eliot wouldn’t pick up on everything he was feeling. Julia always said he was an open book, an irony that made her laugh every time.

An English teacher who was an open book. It was all highly amusing to her. It wasn’t amusing to him, right now, when he was desperate to not ruin this thing with Eliot. If there was a thing. God, he wanted there to be a thing.

One deep breath and smile later, and Quentin approached the table Eliot was waiting at, ready to tell fate to go fuck itself.


End file.
